


Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot

by DefineNormal



Series: Masochism Tango [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:56:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3126953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefineNormal/pseuds/DefineNormal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Jack and Phryne dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Body in Three Quarter Time

**One Body in Three Quarter Time**

Jack and Phryne have met on the edge of crime scenes many times since the first, but the second time Phryne finds her nosey way onto one of Jack's, she is met with significant resistance.

The body, covered fully by a sheet of white, lay at the edge where dirt meets road on an empty highway on the outskirts of Melbourne.

Both Jack and Collins intercept Phryne a hundred yards from the scene, Jack's expression considerably darker than that of his young Constable. In preparation, Phryne schools her features into her most brilliant and captivating smile, and allows her body to loosen in a way that makes men far more cooperative.

"Miss Fisher-" Jack begins, stepping to block her path towards the body. Phryne stops abruptly, shifts her weight, and pauses on the balls of her feet as she tries to guess his next move.

"A murder?" She raises her eyebrows and bobs left to sneak around him. However the police Detective Inspector is wiley and he matches her footwork, blocking her path again.

"I could," she says as she steps right this time and he shadows. "Be of," a pivoting step to the left, and he is there again. "Assistance."

Jack realizes, belatedly, that he's losing ground to Miss Fisher as they shift into this jagged one-two step. So he wraps his finger against her upper arm and pulls her against his chest, a momentarily effective pause to her movement. He is rewarded by a coquettish flutter of her eyelashes and the warmth of her malleable body against his chest.

"Miss Fisher, if you want to dance with me, you only need to ask." The the words are playful yet his delivery is stiff. He doesn't want to like this woman, this infuriatingly disruptive woman who has shown up at his crime scene in _feathers_ and french perfume. Who seems to find his nearness appealing and doesn't seem the slightest bit impressed that he's a _Detective Inspector_. Who looks at him not unlike a hungry cat would watch an unwitting canary.

 _Detective_ Phryne Fisher.

Not slacking his grip at all he steps into her, forcing her backwards to their starting place. She keeps up with him on her tiptoes, her eyes momentarily wide. They've come to a stop and he still hasn't let her go, one hand on her elbow and the other curved around her waist in a grotesque parody of a waltz. Her expression goes slack for an instant before her impossibly red lips curve into a smile. She didn't expect him to play so soon.

It takes her two blinks to gather her wits and she cocks her head, leaning in until her lips almost brush his ear.

"Do you really think you can keep up with me?" She whispers and slides from his loose grasp, already well aware of the answer.

 _No_ , Jack thinks dully as he watches her sashay in the direction of the dead. A careless, sensuous walk that he instinctively knows will lead her right into trouble every time. _Not yet, anyway._


	2. Whiskey Flavored Foxtrot

**Whiskey Flavored Foxtrot**

After the clearing of the DuBois case, Jack feels honor bound to check on Miss Fisher one last time. He has already returned the painting (a vision which will never, ever leave him) so he has no handy excuse to show up at her front door like a lonely stray.

It doesn't matter, however, because as Mr. Butler leads him into the parlor he finds that Miss Fisher and Dr. MacMillan aren't in any mental shape to wonder at his sudden appearance. They are three sheets to the wind, singing drunkenly off-key at the piano as Mr Butler refills their whiskeys once more before disappearing.

"Mac came to chase my bad mood away!" Phryne is overloud, and Mac winces before pinching her friend's side sloppily.

Jack twists his hat in his hands, unsure of how to deal with two inebriated women who are both watching him with immense, blurry interest. The predatory gleam is back in Miss Fisher's eyes, and the good Doctor looks as though she would like to dissect him and find out what his insides are made of.

Finally Miss Fisher speaks, or hollers, at Mr Butler to bring Jack a glass.

"Celebrate with us." Miss Fisher says when he tries to demur, attempting to back away from the situation. But she will hear none of it, standing to take his coat and hat. He assumes she meant to throw them on the back of the sofa but her aim is hindered and they end up in a heap behind the settee instead. Mr. Butler pushes the heavy glass of amber liquid into Jack's hand with an expression that tells him it would be better just to go limp. Obviously, the two women have been at it a while.

"Detec...aspector...inspective Robinson, can you play?" Mac is still trying to tinkle out a tune at the piano but it bears no resemblance to music. Jack nods and she claps her hands with a giddy smile and motions towards the bench beside her.

The whiskey burns away the first wave of self-consciousness as he begins to play a half-remembered song; a lighthearted tune that he barely remembers the words to. Something about a sandwich and coffee. It doesn't matter, because he's captivated by the two giggling women who have broke into some kind of impromptu dance. A mixture of the Charleston and, perhaps, an epileptic fit. He wonders if they've eaten anything and almost asks, but then Phryne draws Mac to her and places a smacking kiss on her lips and Jack can feel his face burn up like wildfire.

Neither women pay any mind to the fact that he has bumbled the song and they continue to dance wildly, sometimes close and sometimes separate, and trade drunken insults with a great deal of affection.

* * *

Jack has no concept of the passage of time, he just knows that his glass has never once been empty, Mac is curled under the piano asleep, and Miss Fisher is tight up against his side watching his hands as he continues to play.

She bumps his shoulder when he pauses in the song and he misses a key.

"Do you dance?" She asks abruptly and when he turns to answer her, he finds her face much too close to his. The whiskey is sweet on her breath and suddenly he's looking into two pairs of blue eyes. With a shake of his head, his vision clears and he wonders vaguely just how much he's had to drink.

"I don't." He finally answers, when he realizes he's been staring at Miss Fisher's lips in silence. He hardly has the presence of mind to object when she pulls him after her and into her arms.

"I don't dance," He tries again, but it's feeble and he hears Mac mumbling for both of them to be quiet.

Miss Fisher doesn't appear to hear him as she's looking down at their feet and explaining something about 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 and left and right and Jack can feel her trying to guide his body but it's as though he's rooted to the spot.

"I don't dance," He's more emphatic this time, but she continues to ignore his objections. "You're not even trying!" She slurs. "Watch me."

He attempts to look down at their feet but drunken depth perception being what it is, his forehead cracks hers and Jack sees stars before he finds his ass firmly planted on the floor.

With the whiskey to dull his iron resolve not to think on it, he is reminded of the possibility that this is not the first time he will fall for Miss Fisher.

It will probably be the least painful, as well.

"No," Miss Fisher says amid her own lilting giggles and Mac's irritated grousing. Her expression is full of affection and she reaches a hand out to him. "You really don't dance, do you?"

_Not yet, anyway._


	3. The Cake Walk

**The Cake Walk**

Jack would never admit it out loud, but sometime Miss Fisher's presence on his cases was not only lacking in irritation, but also alarmingly helpful.

It is his investigator's mind that leads him to the obvious conclusion that such knowledge would only do damage should it find its way to Miss Fisher.

Yet it is a reality he can't rightly deny, at least not to himself. Take now, for example. He would have been hard pressed to find his way into a Dance Hall convincingly, without the entire room pinning him as a copper as soon as he was inside. However with Miss Fisher's swaying hips parting the crowd as she leads him through the smoky establishment, nobody gives him a second look. Her presence, powdered and jeweled and sinfully decadent in a dangerous dress, seems to counteract whatever staid, starched image he is projecting.

A shadowed corner table is their final destination; one with a good view of the majority of the club. She seats them with their backs to the wall and pulls her chair close to his. When she wriggles under his arm, her breath is warm on his neck.

"You'll have to look at least somewhat pleased to be with me, Jack, or someone might…" She flicks her eyes to a swarthy character in the corner, who makes no secret of his perusal of Jack's companion. "Attempt to steal me away."

The thought of Miss Fisher leaving the dance hall on the arm of the man watching them makes Jack's throat close. He tries - he really does - not to be jealous of her many lovers. It is part of the Phryne Fisher package. As he has no intention of unwrapping her for himself, it wouldn't be fair for him to begrudge her fun.

"You aren't mine to steal," He responds, but nonetheless returns the other man's look with a rude expression. The other man is just the type he imagines Miss Fisher would choose. Dark and mysterious and handsome. Vaguely dangerous. Miss Fisher's silence is quite loud and when he finally turns to her, her face is inscrutable. "I would never hold you where you don't want to be."

He watches the glittering stones on her impossibly long lashes as she digests his words. For a split second he sees something shimmer through her gaze - something he cannot name. Then it's gone and she is sliding closer to him, a hand slipping to his thigh. He wonders if he imagined the brush of lips against his throat, along the column of his neck to his ear.

"I believe I've spotted our suspect." She whispers in what he could only think to call her bedroom voice. He is unprepared when she slithers into his lap, using the back of his chair to brace herself as she leans in close. He can see the entire room over her shoulder - well, he would be able to if his attention wasn't riveted to the woman in his arms.

"See him?" She asks. Jack can only imagine the vision they present to anyone looking and the thought distracts him until he hears his name on her lips once more. "Jack?"

Strangely, it is by anchoring himself with his palms on her waist that he is able to focus on the task at hand. Their suspect is dancing wildly to the frenetic jazz of the band, carelessly flinging his dance partner to and fro. He is a bulky chap, meaty and jowly, and the other dancers leave a wide space around him and his hapless partner.

"Brute," Jack doesn't know he's said it out loud until he feels Miss Fisher chuckle in his arms. He understands her amusement. This rough dancing is nothing compared to the way he brutalized the young woman lying dead in the morgue.

"We should get a closer look." Miss Fisher stands and drags Jack up with her. For the most part he has stopped marveling at her fearless approach to any situation. Yet sometimes it still strikes him, the way she ignores her own personal safety to right a wrong. He is so consumed with his thoughts (and the sight of her, bobbing casually to the music) and it is only when they edge onto the dance floor that Jack realizes her intentions.

"I don't dance." He reminds her, for what feels like the umpteenth time. As always she ignores him and turns fully toward him, her hips bouncing to the heavy beat.

She twines their fingers together and allows him to pull her close, her expression pleased at his willingness. Or surrender, which he believes is more accurate. Miss Fisher's palm on his hip gently urges him to move with her. His steps are jerky beneath her guiding hand, but he follows as she leads him further into the press of bodies.

"Watch me," She murmurs and sways, bounces and spins around him. Her smile is bright, but he can tell her attention is split on the suspect that they are slowly closing in on. She twirls until her back is pressed firmly to Jack's front and she helps his hands slide over her hips to the tops of her thighs. He does not allow his thoughts to linger over the curves he is mapping, or the sound of her breath catching in her throat when he twists his fingers into the fabric of her dress.

Danger spikes with the heat between them, and he feels her loose muscles brace as though with conviction.

This time when she pirouettes away, she crashes firmly into their suspect, who turns on her with a roar.

If there had been any question about the man's capability of violence towards women, it disappears as he turns wild eyes onto Miss Fisher. Their suspect, for all his lumbering hulk, swings out surprisingly quickly and grabs Miss Fisher's upper arm so hard it is likely to bruise.

Jack hears the man holler something awful at her and then he remembers nothing until he is clutching his sore fist and standing over their unconscious subject.

Miss Fisher appears beside him, breathless and grinning. "Well done, Jack."

It should bother him that she finds it so thrilling when he becomes violent. Instead the sparkle in her eye and the way her chest heaves causes a ripple of anticipation up his spine.

"How many times must I explain to you, Miss Fisher." Jack states again, even as he removes the cuffs from his pocket. But this time he is smiling. They _do_ make a pretty good team. "I don't dance."

"But you're learning." Miss Fisher beams.


	4. Waltz in Swing Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we go a little bit more on the side of angst and this is much more of a metaphorical dance. Their emotional dance, as it were. Written because I love love love love the scene where Phryne kneels beside Janie's grave and holds out her hand. Without hesitation, Jack is there to hold her. We're going to call that a paradigm shift, my friends.

**Waltz in Swing Time**

" _First, hold your partner close: you can't waltz with someone if you're keeping her at arm's length and trying to pretend she's not with you." -_ _._

Jack cannot control his breathing as he carries Miss Fisher through the labyrinthine hallways that lead away from Foyle's den. His pained pants fill the small space around them, the very sound of absolute terror. Jane is behind him keeping up with his long stride, her hand twisted in his jacket to keep close.

Phryne's face is pale when he looks down at her and he is momentarily terrified that she has stopped breathing. He stumbles over a step and crashes to one knee, pressing the unconscious woman to his chest. Jane yelps behind him, her cry sounding more like a sob, and Phryne shifts in his arms. It is just a small movement, and very weak, but it gives him the strength to stand and move again.

It is the whoosh of fresh air that brings him to his senses, makes him aware that he has been talking this whole time. Asking, praying, begging, ordering.

"Stay with me," He commands. "Phryne, you must stay with me. Come on, love. Open your eyes. Phryne. Phryne."

Her name becomes a mantra until he is able to find the Hispano and put her gently in the seat beside him. He will ruminate on this terror later, under the cover of night. He will think about the ease with which she bartered her life for his - for Jane's. He will examine what it means about her feelings, about the depth of her emotion. But for the time being he puts it all to the back of his mind.

Saving her, making sure she is safe, is the first step.

* * *

When Miss Fisher is lucid, the entire sordid tale is replayed for Jack and his constable. She is remarkably stoic as she recounts her conversation with Foyle, and her voice does not crack as she tells them where he buried her sister.

Jack thinks she has taken the news of Janie's murder fairly well. But her eyes are clouded with sadness and resignation and he realizes she knew - long before she had confirmation, she knew. None of this was not a surprise.

He offers to go with her to look for Janie and a throat-clogging emotion crosses her fine features again.

"Thank you, Jack." Her words are a low rumble. She is tired of talking, of hurting and of feeling. "I need you…"

She doesn't finish the thought. Her whole body jerks a little bit at her confession, as though she herself wasn't prepared for it. Jack knows it is not in her nature to need anybody. She has built a carefree life and surrounded herself with people who need her. But she has done everything she can to avoid an attachment that will hinder her freedom.

He wonders when she will realize that he is not the only one for whom this has happened. That should it come down to it, she needs Jane. And Dot. And Mr Butler. And even those two ruffians, Burt and Cec. She needs them all to complete her family. Maybe when she realizes this, it won't terrify her so much to be loved.

* * *

The day they exhume Jane's body is deceptively bright. Birds sing in trees and there is a wonderfully fragrant breeze that ripples the leaves of the weeping willow. Phryne has been unusually introspective as they hike to the resting place Foyle outlined, and her features are schooled into studied blandness. To an outsider, she would appear as placid as the nearby water.

However Jack has become accustomed to seeing past the Phryne Fisher exterior. He once likened her to a gift he had no intention of unwrapping. And yet each day, each case, each experience he has at her side has peeled away the artifice to reveal the woman inside.

She is a fascinating and noble creature, and he finds himself enchanted by her more often than not. Not just physically, either. Something in her wounded soul calls to him and, more than once, he has thought she would be the one to understand him in a way that Rosie never would. Rosie, who's life has been wonderfully and blessedly without terror and upheaval. Rosies biggest disappointment would always be Jack, and she deserved the chance to connect with someone in a more genuine way.

Even if Phryne was not the one he would end up with, Jack knew that she was the one who changed everything for him.

She kneels amid the dirt and looks into the chasm at what is left of her long lost sister. Everything spills out of her at once. Tears, a whimper of pain, and any bit of artifice she clung to. She is pain personified as she drops her forehead to her palm.

When she reaches behind her, Jack is there waiting. He takes her hand gently at first, until he feels the tremble, and his fingers tighten.

"I am here," He wants to tell her, but he can't bring himself to intrude on this moment.

Besides, she already knows.

* * *

Collins and Dot ride together in the squad car and Phryne asks Jack to drive her home in the Hispano. She is sedate on the ride, sitting with her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes are hidden behind those wide sunglasses and her skin is even more pale than usual.

"Thank you for being there." She says frankly when they are in front of her home. "I'm not sure I could have faced that alone."

Jack turns to look at her, really look, but her eyes are still hidden.

"Miss Fisher, if I am sure of one thing it's that you can face just about anything."

She tilts her head in acceptance. "Perhaps. I rarely have a choice."

They sit in silence for a few minutes more, Jack trying to muster the courage to tell her how brave he thinks she is. He wants to tell her not to put herself at risk on his behalf again, because he's not sure he would be able to face that without her.

Alone.

She starts to talk again and her words are pointed. He can feel her direct gaze even if he can't see it.

"I used to believe it was easier, better, to stay detached. But loneliness hasn't solved anything. Jane is still dead. I'm still alone. And everything still hurts."

He isn't sure she's looking for a response, but he feels as though she is speaking to a part of himself that he hasn't revealed to her. It is unsettling.

"I'm learning that lesson for myself." She says and reaches for his hand. Her touch is warm and soft; he had been expecting her skin to be icy. As she has so often, she is drawing him in. As the man, perhaps he is supposed to lead. But you cannot lead if you don't learn to dance, and you cannot lead if you don't have a partner. "I'll be here when you do, too."

He thinks of Rosie and the dissolution of that union. He thinks of his empty home; his cold bed. He thinks of the color Miss Fisher has brought to that existence. Color sometimes tinted with annoyance, but mostly tinted with friendship.

"You're an excellent teacher." He tells her and she smiles.

"Come to my birthday party." It is not a request but a demand. "I want you there."

Want trumps need every time with her.

"I want to be there." He assures her.

And she understands.


	5. The Masochism Tango

**Masochism Tango**

" _At your command_

_Before you here I stand,_

_My heart is in my hand._

_It's here that I must be_

_[...]_

_My soul is on fire,_

_It's aflame with desire,_

_Which is why I perspire_

_When we tango."_

It would be an embarrassment for Jack to reveal just how many times - and in how many ways - he has imagined this moment. The overwhelming majority began with a quiet seduction, long slow kisses and a tumble into her bed.

Occasionally he fantasizes about shutting her up by sealing his lips over hers and kissing away any smart retort she might be thinking.

More often than not, he allows his mental self to be ravished by her, fully under her control.

For whatever reason, it never occurs to him that it could happen quite in this way.

One moment they are standing at an empty crime scene. There is blood at their feet, a gory underscore to the tension between them. They have argued since they arrived, almost since the very start of the case. That in itself is not unusual, but there seems to be an edge to their irritation that is leaving deeper wounds than usual.

She believes it to be one suspect.

He believes it to be another.

Perhaps he is too vehement in his objections. Perhaps she is too forceful in her rebuttals.

Phryne crosses one foot over the other and they are circling like angry foes. She gesticulates wildly, accuses him of dismissing her.

He is still smarting from her insubordination in front of officers from another division. Of course he dismissed her, he says. He is the only Detective Inspector who would have let her play at detecting for this long.

It is exactly the most wrong thing he could think to say, and it registers on her face in a streak of scarlet over each cheek.

He believes she might strike him and indeed she steps closer. Anger is radiating off her in waves and when her arm snakes out he doesn't stop the slap he knows is coming. He closes his eyes and braces.

Her first curls in his lapels and she shakes him until he opens his eyes. Blue fire greets his gaze and her impossible lips curve into a vicious, belligerent grin.

"You're beautiful when you're angry." She says instead, and he is so disarmed he gapes. And then she stomps on his foot.

She manages five long strides before he catches up with her, limping heavily and cursing a blue streak.

"Don't walk away from me." He grunts and makes a grab at her arm. She shakes him off and he grabs again, this time tighter. If his fingers leave marks, so be it. In a thousand different ways, almost since he has known her, she has been branding him. Little by little she has taken possession of him, until he doesn't know where his life ends and hers begins. This woman, who makes no commitments and utters no promises, has co-opted his entire self. Every crime scene is theirs. Every report he writes bears her name. Her whiskey in his stomach, her perfume clings to his clothes. Her face fills his dreams.

She is everywhere. Everything. A central character in his lonely life. He fears losing her - to fate, to danger, or to her own whim, every second of every day.

And he's had just about enough of loving her from a distance, of not possessing even a small part of her.

Whatever angry words are on her tongue die before they're spoken. His intentions must show on his face, because her lips part and she is sighing out a relieved "Oh," before his mouth descends.

Perhaps a few years of teasing is too long, because Jack's tongue is pushing between her teeth without preamble. What he assumed would be a gentle seduction on his part has become desperate. Possession, need, but most of all desire flood them both. She clings to him with her hands around his biceps. He holds her head steady, his hands gentle along her cheeks despite the fervor of his mouth.

When he finally pulls away from her, her lips are swollen, her hair is mussed and her pupils have dilated fully. The reality of her is even more devastating to him than the dreams.

"Don't walk away from me." He growls but releases her, expecting her to do just that. Instead she slides her hands up his arms, to his shoulders. Her fingers burrow through the hair at the nape of his neck and she licks her lips. And still, she does not kiss him. Neither does she flee

She watches him with darkened eyes, and once the fog clears he can see just the slightest hint of fear in her gaze. He is instantly remorseful of his actions and he fights against the desire to look away. She must sense the shift in his mood, because she makes a small sound of frustration and curls her fingers against his scalp.

When it seems like they will stand this way forever, he studiously not touching her and she anchoring them together with her hands in his hair, she finally speaks.

"I do want you." She says simply, as though it explains everything. " _All_ of you."

"You already have me," He responds immediately, though it sounds like a plea. _Doesn't she know_ , he thinks? Doesn't she know how much he's lost to her already?

She shakes her head, the sharp points of her hair brushing her cheeks. He hasn't seen her this conflicted since he told her to leave his life. Since he dis-invited her from his heart completely.

And then realization strikes him. As sometimes occurs in the course of their work together, the freshness of her perspective has lent him insight he otherwise missed.

Their investigations. Their quiet evenings sipping whiskey. Their laughter.

Their friendship.

She has, piece by piece, relinquished as much of herself to him as he has to her. This wild and wonderful woman has, while not clipped her wings, taught herself to fly close to home. She has invited him to her, gently and without agenda, trying not to frighten him away. She has accepted what he would offer, be it friendship or partnership, and made herself available for whatever he should need from her.

She has waited and wondered, teased and cajoled. But she has never pushed.

She will not demand of him, or even beg.

She does not want his surrender; she requires his participation. It means that he has intent; that he has expectations.

It means...well, that he means it. That he wants it. That he wants...

"I do want you," He echoes her words, and steps forward into her. One hand slips over her waist to span over the small of her back and he draws her until they are touching from forehead to feet. The other hand reaches for one of hers and he threads their fingers together. Her smile is tentative until he runs his fingers up and down over her spine and drops his lips to her throat. A chaste kiss is anything but when placed against the pulse in her neck and she cannot swallow her throaty giggle. It doesn't take much until their feet are shifting to a beat only they can hear.

It isn't about leading or following. It isn't a matter of giving in, or giving up.

He said he would never tango. He said didn't dance. He said this wouldn't happen.

He lied.

The tempo is about to change, and they will have to stumble together to learn new steps. He will step on her feet and she will try to change the rhythm.

But, he realizes, they've already been dancing all this time.

"I want all of you." He says, and means it. And then he takes her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Masochism Tango is by Tom Lehrer. It is "literally" about masochism but I borrowed the phrase more because I felt like this "dance" that Jack and Phryne engage in is because they're both afraid of being hurt. And they both injure themselves in the process. My sweet dummies.
> 
> To write this chapter I listened to several solid hours of tango. Most specifically La Cumparsita and Por Una Cabeza, the most easily recognizeable tango songs. Who doesn't love a good tango? Mmm, so pretty.

**Author's Note:**

> About that title - I know it is often just another way to say WTF, but since this story will contain whiskey, a tango and a foxtrot, I figured it worked.
> 
> This is a five-times fic so there will be five chapters. The first two are already written.


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